Brittany's Restaurant
by Amy-Violet
Summary: Sam, Blaine, Kurt, and Rachel pay a Thanksgiving visit to Brittany and Santana in Massachusetts, where they run into unexpected trouble with the law. A very trashy story.


Sam's new vehicle was...it was really something else. It was a vintage red VW microbus that he and Burt had supposedly fixed up to be good as new. But there was no time to stand and admire it—Sam was double parked—so Blaine and Kurt and Rachel just clambered in.

"Did you really drive this thing all the way from Ohio?" Rachel asked as they took off.

"Yeah, and it's been like four hours since my last stop, so if you guys know where there's a gas station around here that would be awesome."

"You could've come up to the apartment," Rachel said.

"What, and risk this baby getting towed? No way."

It took them a frustratingly long time to find a gas station. Since none of the New York residents had cars, they never had to learn where stuff like that was. They found one eventually, and Blaine filled the tank while Sam went in to use the restroom.

Blaine was in the driver's seat when Sam came out with four Diet Cokes, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and a bag of Fritos. Sam got in the passenger's seat and said, "Thanks, dude. I was hoping someone else would offer to drive for a while." He handed out the bottles of pop and tossed the Fritos back to Rachel. "These are vegan. I checked."

"Aw, thanks, Sam." She opened the bag and took out a handful. She held out the bag to Kurt but he shook his head.

Sam wiggled out of his coat, put his seatbelt on, and looked forward. Then, since they weren't moving forward yet, he looked at Blaine. "Uh...I don't actually know how to drive stick," Blaine admitted.

"Oh. Well, that's okay." Sam started to unfasten his seatbelt, but Kurt was already making his way to the front. He tapped Blaine on the shoulder, told him to get out, and climbed into the driver's seat.

So Kurt drove them all the way up to Stockbridge. Sam had kind of hoped he'd get to sit next to Blaine on the drive, but it seemed rude to ask Rachel to switch seats with him as soon as Kurt was in the front, so he didn't. And it was fine, the conversation was just general anyway. He couldn't really see Blaine most of the time, but there'd be time for that when they got there.

The four of them didn't really have that much catching up to do, since they'd been keeping in touch pretty constantly. Well, Sam and Blaine had been in touch; Blaine had been relaying Kurt's and Rachel's news to Sam and vice versa.

Blaine and Kurt had broken up, which they'd both handled remarkably well. They hadn't been able to continue being roommates—Blaine had moved into the NYADA dorms as soon as school started—but they seemed to be doing well with being friends. Kurt was maybe sort of dating this Elliott guy who had been in his band, Blaine wasn't sure and he tried not to pry.

The band itself, the Pamela Lansburys, hadn't lasted too long. Santana was the first to leave. When Brittany got kicked out of MIT for starting a riot at graduation—she was outraged that the administration had rebuffed her efforts to get Ke$ha as the commencement speaker—Santana rushed off to comfort her. Somehow they decided to move to Stockbridge and open a restaurant with the money Santana's mother had given her. Dani, of course, hadn't stayed long after Santana left, and Rachel was too busy with Funny Girl, so that was it.

Rachel had stopped doing pretty much everything other than Funny Girl. She quit her waitressing job and took a leave from NYADA. Kurt and Blaine had to enlist the help of her director to persuade her to come with them for this Thanksgiving trip. The director agreed she was on the verge of burning out before the show even opened, so he canceled all rehearsals for the long weekend and threatened to delay the opening until Rachel took a few days off.

And Sam was...back in Lima. He really hadn't liked New York at all. Ms. Bichette—everything she'd tried to warn him about, like how modeling wasn't glamorous and how it didn't really pay that much, it was all true. If Blaine and Kurt had already broken up by the time he'd decided to quit, he might have stayed in the city and tried something else. But they hadn't.

So he had a little apartment in Lima—even though Burt and Carole had told him he could stay with them as long as he wanted—and he was working in Burt's garage and co-coaching the New Directions. Just like Finn had, before...Well, he tried not to draw too many parallels between himself and Finn.

It was late when they pulled into the parking lot of Brittany's restaurant. Brittany's Restaurant was not actually the name of the restaurant, but no one could remember what its name was, and it strangely no sign. Santana ran out and hugged them all before she smacked Kurt on the side of the head and said, "What the hell took you so long?"

"Ow! We had to make a huge detour."

Sam added, "The New York State Thruway is closed, man!"

The restaurant was just about to close, but Brittany made them all grilled cheese sandwiches—except Rachel, who got toast with jelly. She didn't even burn them much, except for Rachel's.

While they ate, Santana told them about their house. Except it wasn't really a house, it was an old church. Huge! Really well built, lots of hard wood, beautiful stained glass windows. Light and airy and spacious inside. They were starting to remodel it so they could turn it into a bed and breakfast. So far about all they'd managed was to take out all the pews.

When they got to the church and actually stepped inside, an overpowering odor assaulted them. "What the hell!?" Kurt said.

"Oh, that's just the garbage," Brittany said. A little dog—some kind of shaggy but adorable little mutt—ran over and stood behind her. She leaned down to scratch its head and said, "What's the matter, Fasha? Has Lord Tubbington been making fun of your accent again?"

"I can smell that it's garbage," Kurt said. Someone flipped the lights on and they could see it. Trash _everywhere_. "What the hell?" Kurt repeated.

"Well see, we had so much room where the pews used to be in..." Santana said, "...and having all that room, seeing as how we took out all the pews..."

"We decided that we didn't have to take out the garbage for a long time," Brittany concluded.

"Like how long?" Blaine asked, covering his nose.

"Well, let's see. We took out the pews as soon as we moved in, so...yeah, never," Brittany said.

"Oh my God," Blaine muttered.

"You can't smell it at all from the rectory," Santana said as she led them past the trash heaps.

The odor wasn't as strong in the rectory, but it _was_ still noticeable. "Kurt and Rachel must be dying," Blaine said as he opened all the windows in the room he was sharing with Sam. Cold air whipped right through the room. "Oh God, we're gonna have to choose between freezing to death or asphyxiating on garbage fumes."

"Nah, we'll be fine," Sam said. "We'll just do what me and my brother and sister used to do when our parents couldn't pay the heating bill. Sleep in our clothes all huddled up."

"Yeah, but..." It wasn't that Blaine objected to sleeping cuddled up with Sam. On the other hand, he didn't want to seem _too_ eager. "But Kentucky isn't as cold as Massachusetts."

"True, but Brittany and Santana have heat."

Blaine couldn't argue with that. They removed nothing but their coats and shoes, turned off the light, and got under the covers of one of the twin beds together. They started out with their backs to each other, but then Sam turned over. "It's warmer if we sort of...spoon. If you don't mind," he said.

"I don't mind," Blaine squeaked.

Sam pressed up against Blaine and wrapped an arm around him. "Well. Good night."

"Mm-hmm," was all Blaine trusted himself to say. He didn't think he was going to sleep at all, but he actually did start to drift off pretty quickly. Until...

"We should haul all that garbage to the dump for them tomorrow," Sam said, startling Blaine awake. "Sorry, were you asleep already?"

"No! I just...what did you say?"

"I said I think it would be a friendly gesture for us to take the garbage to the city dump tomorrow."

"Yeah. Definitely." Blaine waited to see if Sam had anything to add. When it seemed like he didn't, he said, "Good night."

"Good night."

Blaine was drifting off again when he woke to find Sam's climbing over him to get out of bed. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry!" Sam said as he switched the light back on. "I just had a sudden inspiration! I was thinking we should record a song for Brittany and Santana, like an ad for their restaurant, and it just came to me! Wanna hear it?"

"Sure," Blaine said. Sam was already going for his guitar, so it wasn't like he had any choice.

Sam strummed a simple tune and started singing: "You can get anything you want at Brittany's restaurant. You can get anything you want at Brittany's restaurant. Walk right in, it's around the back. Just a half a mile from the railroad tracks. You can get anything you want at Brittany's restaurant." He set the guitar down and smiled at Blaine. "What do you think?"

"That's awesome, Sam," Blaine said. "Uh, we might want to find out the actual name of the restaurant if we're going to make an ad for it."

"Whatever," Sam said. "That's just a minor detail."

"Are you coming back to bed?"

"Oh. Yeah." Sam turned the light back off, climbed over him again, and got back under the covers. He snuggled up to Blaine again.

"Anything else you'd like to chat about before we go to sleep?"

"No," Sam said. He scooted a teensy bit closer. "Well..."

"Yeah?"

"I was just wondering...I mean, maybe you don't wanna talk about it, but you never really told me why you and Kurt broke up."

"Oh..." Blaine tried to think of how to answer that.

"Never mind," Sam said after a while. "I shouldn't have asked, it's none of my business."

"No, I don't mind, I just don't know how to explain it." He caught himself trying to interlace his fingers with Sam's and he put his hand under his head instead. "I guess I just came to realize that...I mean, I really wanted us to work out. And I mean, after Finn died, and everyone was like, Rachel should've married him when she had the chance! And I kind of started to realize that _that_ was the only reason Kurt wanted to marry me, like, out of panic. And that's sort of why I proposed to him. Not because of Finn, but I guess I felt like if I didn't marry him—right away—that I'd always be alone or something. But after moving in with him, I sort of realized that we aren't really that much alike, that us being soulmates or whatever was just a fantasy in my head, and that we both had time to find someone we'd really be happy with for the rest of our lives. Or not, and if not that's okay too. But staying together would have made us both miserable. Just living together was a nightmare. The only reason we're even able to be friends now is because I moved out. I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

"No. No, I think I get it. So...it wasn't because you had your eye on anyone else in particular."

"Um." Blaine honestly had never gotten over his crush on Sam. But that wasn't the only reason—not even the main reason, really—that he had called things off with Kurt. And he couldn't see what good it would do to mention it now. "No."

"Yeah, I didn't think so. Okay, I'll let you go to sleep now." But Blaine didn't go to sleep, not until he felt the slow, steady breaths on the back of his neck telling him that Sam was finally asleep.

When Blaine woke up in the morning, his face was buried in Sam's chest and both Sam's arms were wrapped around him tightly. He would have liked to stay like that forever, but he really had to pee. He tried to get out of bed slowly, without disturbing Sam, but it didn't work. "Morning!" Sam said cheerfully.

"Oh, good morning. Were you already awake?"

"Yeah, sorry. I tried not to move or anything so I wouldn't wake you."

"No, it wasn't you. It was my bladder."

Sam immediately let go so Blaine could get up. Neither of them showered or changed clothes since they just planned to spend the morning hauling garbage anyway, but they did brush their teeth before going downstairs. And Blaine regelled his hair, of course.

Kurt was busy handing out dinner preparation assignments when they got there. "Okay, so Rachel, you're in charge of the vegetables, obviously. Sam can be your vegetable sous-chef—"

"Yeah, me and Blaine will help out with the dinner if there's time after we get back from the dump." He explained the friendly gesture they had in mind.

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Rachel said. "You guys just do that and I'll be perfectly fine without a sous-chef. And whatever Kurt had planned for Blaine we can cover too. Right, Kurt?"

Kurt frowned slightly but said "Right" as he scribbled something in his notebook.

Sam found some shovels and rakes and other implements of destruction in a shed out in back, and he and Blaine got to work loading up the back of the red VW microbus with the half a ton of garbage from where the pews used to be.

They headed on toward the city dump, but when they got there, there was a big sign and a chain across the dump saying, "Closed on Thanksgiving."

"What!?" Sam said. "This blows! I've never heard of a dump being closed on Thanksgiving before! Have you?"

"No," Blaine agreed. "We've gotta get rid of this garbage. It's making my eyes water."

And with tears in their eyes they drove off into the sunset looking for another place to put the garbage.

They didn't find one...until they came to a side road. And off the side of the side road was another fifteen-foot cliff, and at the bottom of the cliff was another pile of garbage.

"I guess that one big pile is better than two little piles," Blaine said. He really was desperate to get rid of the damn garbage.

"Absolutely. And we _could_ bring that one up, but I think it would be better to throw ours down."

"Agreed," Blaine said. So that's what they did.

They drove back to the church, had a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, went to sleep, and didn't get up until the next morning when Santana woke them up by kicking the bed. "You two slept together?" she asked. "Wanky."

Sam glared at her through half-open eyes. "What do you want, Santana?"

"Blaine's got a phone call from Officer Figgins."

"What!?" Sam sat up and swung his feet around onto the floor. "Did you say _Figgins_?"

"Yeah. He got hired as a cop up here after Coach Sylvester got him fired from McKinley."

"Wow. That's really..."

"Disturbing," Blaine finished for him as he took the phone from Santana. "Hello?"

"Good morning, frizzy-haired teenaged homosexual," Officer Figgins said. Apparently he remembered Blaine, then. "We found your name on an envelope at the bottom of a half a ton of garbage, and we just wanted to know if you had any information about it."

"Yes, sir, Officer Figgins, I cannot tell a lie," Blaine said. "I put that envelope underneath that garbage."

After speaking to Figgins for about forty-five minutes on the telephone they finally arrived at the truth of the matter and said that Blaine and Sam had to go pick up the garbage and also said that they had to go and speak to Figgins at the police officers' station. So they got in the red VW microbus with the shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed on towards the police officers' station.

"What do think he'll do?" Blaine asked as they drove.

"There's only one of two things he could do," Sam said. "The first is he could give us a medal for being so brave and honest on the telephone."

"Yeah, that's not very likely."

"No, I'm not expecting that either. And the other is he could bawl us out and tell us never to be seen driving garbage around the vicinity again."

"Yeah, that's what I expect," Blaine said.

"Me too," Sam agreed.

But when they got to the police officers' station there was a third possibility that they hadn't even counted upon and they were both immediately arrested, handcuffed, and Sam said, "Figgins, I don't think I can pick up the garbage with these handcuffs on."

He said, "Shut up, sexy teen imbecile. Get in the back of the patrol car."

And that's what they did: sat in the back of the patrol car and drove to the quote "scene of the crime" unquote.

The town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts, where this was happening, has got three stop signs, two police officers, and one police car, but when they got to the _scene of the crime_ there were five police officers and three police cars, being the biggest crime of the last fifty years, and everybody wanted to get in the newspaper story about it.

And they were using up all kinds of cop equipment they had hanging around the police officers' station. They were taking plastic tiretracks, footprints, dog-smelling prints, and they took twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one, explaining what each one was, to be used as evidence against the boys. They took pictures of the approach, the getaway, the northwest corner, the southwest corner...and that's not to mention the aerial photography.

After the ordeal they went back to the jail. Figgins said he was gonna put them in the cell. He said, "Littering teens, I am going to put you in the cell. I want your wallets and your belts."

Sam said, "I can see you wanting our wallets so we don't have any money to spend in the cell, but what do you want our belts for?"

He said, "Teens, we don't want any hangings."

Blaine said, "Figgins, did you think we were gonna hang ourselves for littering?"

Figgins said he was making sure, and Figgins was, because he took out the toilet seat so they couldn't hit themselves over the head and drown. And he took out the toilet paper so they couldn't bend the bars, roll the toilet paper out the window, slide down the roll, and have an escape.

"How long did Brittany say it would be before she can bail us out of jail?" Blaine asked when Figgins had walked away.

"About four or five hours."

"What!? Did she say why so long?"

"Nope. Hope you don't have to go number two."

"Ha ha. Thanks for that."

"Any time." Sam dropped to the floor and started doing pushups.

"Uh, what are you doing, Sam?"

"Working out. Isn't this what guys do when they're serving time?"

"We're only serving four hours."

"Or five," Sam said, but he stopped with the pushups and stood up again. "I guess you're right, though, that I don't need to do anything that'll make me smell even worse." They both had a lingering garbage scent.

"Speaking of which..." Blaine said. There was a little sink in the cell, and Figgins had neglected to remove the soap. He could have used it to fashion a shiv, but Blaine decided to use it for its intended purpose instead. He stripped his shirt off, dropped it on the floor, and washed the upper half of his body. It was only when he was done that he realized he had nothing to dry off with except his stinky shirt, which was extremely unappealing. He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered.

Sam took his shirt off too. "You want me to wash first or just warm you up the way I smell?"

"Just warm me up." The cell was really cold, he realized now that he was soaking.

Sam pulled him in tight and wrapped his arms around him. He really was warm. Blaine had his nose right up against Sam's neck, and he really didn't smell that bad. Yeah, kind of sweaty and garbagey, but there was still the warm, familiar scent of Sam under all that. He closed his eyes and sighed.

They started rocking back and forth somehow—Blaine thought Sam must have started it—and then somehow Sam's lips were pressed against his temple...kissing him. Wait, really? Yeah, he was pretty sure. "Sam?"

And then he was really sure, because Sam kissed him again...and again...each kiss a little closer to his mouth...before he asked, "What?"

"Um. What are you doing?"

"Isn't this what guys do when they're serving time?"

"We're, uh..." Sam was still kissing him! "We're only serving four hours."

"Or maybe five," Sam said, right before he placed his lips directly on Blaine's.

Blaine broke out of his embrace and backed away. "Seriously, Sam. What's going on? No one resorts to homosexuality after...how long have we been in here? Half an hour?"

Sam stepped back and leaned against the wall. "I'm sorry. I've just...kind of been looking for an excuse all weekend. I thought maybe this was my opening, but obviously—" He couldn't finish his sentence because Blaine's lips were on his, Blaine's tongue was in his mouth.

When Figgins returned to the cell to let them out—and there's no way it was four or five hours later—they were on the floor, both shirtless still, Sam with his back against the wall, and Blaine on his lap straddling him and sucking yet another hickey into his neck—they were both covered with them.

Brittany, who was right behind Figgins, jumped and clapped and went, "Yay! Blam!"

"So," Blaine said as they got back into the red VW microbus, "was that strictly a jailhouse romance, or...?" He realized he maybe should have asked that before spending the whole afternoon making out with Sam.

"I hope not," Sam said. "I mean I'd like it to be more."

"But...I hate to bring this up, but you're in Lima and I'm in New York."

Sam exhaled loudly. "I know. I said I'd like it to be, I didn't say it would be easy."

"Or maybe even possible," Blaine said softly.

They drove back to the church, had another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, went to sleep in separate beds and with the windows closed, and didn't get up until the next morning, when they all had to go to court.

They walked in, sat down.

Figgins walked in with the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy pictures with circles and arrows on the back of each one and sat down.

A man came in and said, "All rise."

The boys stood up, and Figgins stood up with the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy pictures, and the judge walked in with a seeing-eye dog, and he sat down. The boys sat down.

Figgins looked at the seeing-eye dog...then at the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one...and looked at the seeing-eye dog. And then at the twenty-seven color glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one, and began to cry, because Figgins came to the realization that it was a typical case of American blind justice and there was nothing he could do about it. And the judge wasn't going to look at the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one to be used as evidence against the boys.

And they were fined fifty dollars and had to pick up the garbage in the snow.

And while they were picking up the garbage in the snow, Sam said, "I think we should try it anyway."

"Try what anyway?" Blaine asked.

"You know. Being more than a jailhouse romance."

"But...how would that even work?"

"I have no idea."

Blaine didn't even take time to think about it, he just said, "Okay."

And that night, after yet another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, although the windows were closed and the room was plenty warm, they did not sleep in separate beds.

**A/N: Inspired by...no, scratch that. Totally ripped off from "Alice's Restaurant." I love you, Arlo Guthrie! Please don't sue me! I have no assets, aside from a scratched and dented twelve-year-old Chevy, a Picasso, and a chest full of jewels. Also, two of those things are lies.**


End file.
